The sting hit first.
A hot, sharp thread pulling through my skin. I clenched my teeth, jaw tight, grinding against the pressure until it burned into something deeper. My eyes squeezed shut. The pain came in a wave, steady and cruel, before dulling into that strange numb ache that made you aware of every pulse in your body.
When I finally opened my eyes, the ceiling lights blurred. Tears clung to the corners of my lashes, and I could taste it—warm, metallic, familiar. I exhaled through the pain, jaw trembling just enough to betray me. "Wow. Fuck," I muttered, voice rough. "This is bad."
Eddie laughed from the corner of the room, a blunt hanging loosely from his lips, smoke curling up like a slow-moving ghost. "Should've asked him to add numbing cream or something," he said, words lazy, amused.
The tattoo artist—Eugene, though everyone called him Ouiji—pulled off his gloves and tossed them into the bin. He had arms covered in fine-lined sigils climbed his arms and neck; his eyes had a piercer's patience. "You'll live," he said. "Just make sure it doesn't get infected. Don't change the ring any time soon. You know the rest."
I nodded, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Blood dotted my skin, small and bright. I could taste it—warm, metallic, familiar. Too familiar.
The taste opened a door I didn't want.
For a second, the dim studio vanished. I was back in Odette's house, thirteen again, the sharp smell of rust and rain in the air, my knuckles split open from where I'd scraped them on the stair rail. My tongue had caught the blood then too—same warmth, same bitterness. A strange comfort in knowing pain had a flavor that didn't change with years.
I blinked hard and the room came back. The low thrum of music from a cracked speaker, the faint smell of antiseptic and smoke, Eddie's laughter still in the air.
Ouiji handed me a small mirror. "Take a look."
The ring gleamed under the fluorescent light, a small circle of silver catching every reflection. My lip was already swollen, the skin red and tender. It looked raw, a little reckless—like something I shouldn't have, but wanted anyway.
Eddie leaned closer, exhaling smoke near my ear. "Looks good on you, pretty boy."
"Hurts like hell," I said.
"Means it's real," he answered.
Ouiji smirked faintly, returning to clean his tools. "He's right. If it didn't hurt, it wouldn't be worth it."
I kept staring at my reflection, at that thin glint of light resting against my skin. It wasn't much, just a ring of metal, but it changed something. A small, defiant mark. Proof that I could still choose what hurt me.
Eddie clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you something cold to press on it. Or a drink. Maybe both."
I nodded, still watching the mirror as if the version of me inside it might move differently. Then I followed him out into the warm, breathing night.
Blood still lingered on my tongue like a memory that refused to fade.
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July 29th, 2018
Hugo Hollands, Age 17.
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There are memories I would pay to erase—wipe them clean from the inside of my skull, even if it left a hollow in their place. This one, especially. July 29th, 2018. My first night on the streets.
It didn't happen the way people imagine those things do. There wasn't a dramatic goodbye, no slammed doors, no suitcase in hand. Just an absence—my things gone, my space erased.
The day before, we'd celebrated Harry's fifteenth birthday. Streamers, noise, the smell of vanilla cake and cheap candles. I'd even managed to smile that day, convincing myself maybe things were softening between Odette and me. Maybe she was finally letting the past go.
The next morning, I came back from my shift at the supermarket. I'd been working the register for barely six months, long hours for short pay. It didn't matter much; I thought I'd be staying at my aunt's anyway. That job was supposed to be temporary—something to make me feel useful.
I opened my door to absence. Bed stripped. No clothes, no bag. Detergent and dust—like the room had been cleaned of me.
I walked to the kitchen, still in my work uniform, still smelling of sweat and plastic gloves. "Where are my things?" I asked.
Odette didn't even look up from her phone. "Outside," she said.
"Outside?"
"Outside," she repeated, slower this time, as if I were deaf. "You're old enough, Hugo. I've done my part. You'll be eighteen soon. I'm not running a charity."
It turned into shouting after that. I can't remember every word, only how my throat hurt and how her eyes stayed cold through all of it. By the time I stepped outside, my bags were sitting by the bins. The street was bright, the sun glaring too much for that hour. I stood there a long time, watching the door close behind me, realizing it wouldn't open again.
That was my first day outside.
I had no plan, no money, nothing. The supermarket would have been something, but the paycheck wasn't due for another week. I sat on the curb with my bags beside me, the world suddenly too big. I tried to think of what came next—maybe a friend from school, a park bench, a train station. It didn't matter. None of them felt real.
As the day faded, the city changed shape. The streets grew sharper, hungrier. I found a corner under a broken streetlamp and decided it was as good a place as any. I put my bags down, phone dying in my hand. I still had the charger, but no outlet.
So I got up, just for a moment, to find somewhere—anywhere—to plug it in. A gas station, a café. I didn't even go far, maybe thirty steps. When I turned back, there were kids by my bags. Three of them, maybe four. Teenagers, like me but different—lean, restless, eyes that knew too much.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted, already moving toward them.
One of them turned, a smirk curling slow across his face. "Those your stuff?"
"Yeah," I said. "They're mine."
He tilted his head, sizing me up. "Then you're not allowed to stay here."
"What the hell does that mean? It's a public street."
He laughed, short and sharp. "No, it isn't. This is our block. Our crew runs here. You're in the way."
"I'm not leaving," I said. The words came out before I thought about them. Maybe pride, maybe stupidity, maybe the leftover habit of being told where I could and couldn't exist.
He exchanged a look with the others. "You don't get it, do you?"
I didn't then. Not really. I knew people hung around these parts, but I didn't understand the kind of business they were running. This alley wasn't just space—it was territory. They distributed drugs here, little packets exchanged for money that changed hands too fast to count. Clients knew where to come. Regulars, drifters, desperate faces.
And me, sitting there with my bags, I was taking up their spot.
I remember how the air thickened, how the shadows of their bodies blocked the streetlight. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed. A dog barked. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.
"I said I'm not leaving," I repeated, quieter this time, almost to myself.
The leader—if that's what he was—stepped closer, his sneakers scraping the ground. "Then you're about to learn how this works."
He didn't raise his voice, didn't even look angry. That made it worse.
I wish I'd walked away then. I wish I'd swallowed what was left of my pride and found another corner, any other place. But I didn't. I stood my ground, shaking, trying not to show it.
That night taught me more about the world than seventeen years ever had. The streets had rules, invisible ones. You didn't sit where you weren't supposed to. You didn't talk to people who didn't want to be talked to. And above all—you didn't think survival was owed to you.
Because it wasn't.
They circled me before I even realized what was happening. Four shadows closing in, boots scraping the concrete, voices rough with mock laughter. I backed against the wall, my hand instinctively reaching for my bag, but one of them kicked it aside, the sound of it scraping over asphalt loud enough to drown my heartbeat.
"Didn't I tell you to leave?" the first one said. His voice was light, almost playful, like he was enjoying himself.
"I told you," I said, trying to sound steady. "I'm not going anywhere."
The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them. I don't know why I said it—maybe pride, maybe fear trying to disguise itself.
He smiled, and then his fist hit me.
The first punch came quick and low, right under the ribs. Air left my lungs before I could make a sound. Another caught the side of my jaw, and white light burst behind my eyes. Someone grabbed my shirt collar and shoved me backward until my shoulder slammed into brick. My head rang. I tasted dust, then iron.
One of them laughed—short, ugly. "Welcome to the street, kid."
They didn't stop. The sound of sneakers thudding, the weight of fists connecting with flesh, the sting of knuckles splitting skin—it all blurred together. I tried to cover my face, but another kick landed across my side. My body folded instinctively, the world narrowing into flashes of movement and pain.
"Stop—" I managed, but my voice cracked halfway through.
"Should've listened when we told you," another said, kicking my leg out.
I hit the ground hard. My palms scraped against the asphalt, the texture biting into skin. Everything smelled like smoke and the faint sourness of the trash bins nearby. I tried to crawl toward my bag, but someone yanked me back by the hood. My face hit the pavement, lip splitting on impact. Warmth pooled in my mouth. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and wet.
Then, suddenly—another voice. "Hey!"
The rhythm of the beating broke. I felt the weight shift off me. Two boys stepped into the alley mouth. One tall and lean, the other broader, with a sharpness to his movements that drew all the light toward him.
The one who spoke first—Eddie—had a blunt tone, casual but edged. "You don't want to cause a ruckus here, right? You start something loud, and the cops are going to be sniffing around before you finish your fun."
The boys who'd been hitting me turned, their bravado flickering. "He wouldn't leave," one of them said. "We told him to go. He didn't listen."
Eddie exhaled, tilting his head. "That's not how things work, man. You talk to people. Look at him—he's new. Doesn't even know what block he's sitting on."
The other newcomer, Riley, stepped forward, calm but firm. "We'll take him along, alright? Beating someone half-dead isn't the answer."
"Oh, now you're moral?" one of the boys sneered. "Didn't you do the same two weeks ago? That couple by your spot?"
Eddie smirked without humor. "The guy had a knife. We didn't have a choice. This one doesn't even have a damn bag left to throw."
"That's enough," Riley said, voice low but steady. "We're done here."
Eddie moved first. He bent down and grabbed my bag, shaking the dust from it. Riley crouched beside me, hand on my shoulder, steady and warm. "Let's go," he said quietly. "Come on."
My body obeyed before my mind caught up. The alley tilted as I stood, vision blurring at the edges. The world swam in and out of focus—light, faces, the metallic taste of blood.
"You need something to clean those up," Riley said. "You waiting for someone? Got somewhere you're headed?"
I tried to speak, but my lips ached, words sticking to the roof of my mouth. "I'm not going anywhere," I said finally. "I don't know where to go."
He looked at Eddie, a silent question passing between them. Eddie frowned, the cigarette between his fingers burning down to the filter. "You're homeless?" he asked.
The word hit harder than any punch.
Homeless.
Until he said it, I hadn't really thought of it that way. I'd just been outside. Temporary. Passing through. But the moment the word landed, it settled in my chest like a weight I couldn't shake off.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
Riley gave my shoulder a small squeeze. "Come on, kid," he said. "We'll figure it out."
And just like that, they started walking, one on each side of me, the three of us moving through the alley toward the main road. The air was heavy with summer rain, and I could still taste blood every time I swallowed. My feet dragged against the pavement, each step a dull echo in the dark.
Eddie carried my bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Riley's hand stayed steady against my back. The city lights ahead blurred through the sting in my eyes, turning everything into gold and shadow.
That night, I realized something I hadn't before—that sometimes, help didn't come softly. It came suddenly, uninvited, wrapped in smoke and strangers' hands.
May, 2025
The night had a lazy warmth to it, the kind that laid a soft thrum on the skin. Eddie and I walked side by side down the cracked sidewalk, each with a beer in hand, the bottles sweating in the fading light. The street smelled like oil and bread—the bakery two blocks down always left its ovens running too late—and somewhere, a radio played a half-static love song.
We'd been talking about nothing, the kind of talk that filled silence more than it meant anything, when I saw him.
Harry.
He was standing outside the convenience store near the shelter, leaning against the glass wall beneath the neon glow of a flickering "OPEN" sign. He looked almost exactly how I remembered him, but older in the small ways that mattered—the kind that crept up slowly, between summers. His hair was still dark, soft and unkept, falling over his forehead like it never knew where to sit. His sweater was striped, black and gray, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, and his posture carried that mix of calm and uncertainty I used to know too well. The light above him drew a faint sheen along his cheekbones, and his expression… God, it was still gentle.
"Give me a minute, man," I said to Eddie, handing him my bottle.
He raised an eyebrow but didn't ask. "Don't make me babysit your drink too long."
I crossed the road. The sound of tires against wet pavement filled the space between us until Harry finally looked up. The second he saw me, a smile spread across his face—soft, familiar, the kind that pulled a thousand old feelings with it.
I smiled back, but it came out tight, almost shy. "Hey, man. What are you doing here?"
He stepped forward, his voice carrying that same warmth that used to cut through even Odette's worst moods. "I'm visiting Ebonreach for spring break. Thought I'd come check on you."
I didn't think—I just moved in, wrapping him in a hug. It was quick, a little awkward, but real. For a second, he smelled like everything I'd missed: soap, rain, and something clean, something that didn't belong in this city.
"How've you been?" I asked when we pulled apart.
"I've been alright," he said, studying me the way he used to when I was lying to him as a kid. "But how about you? How's it been lately?"
I shrugged, glancing away. "Same shit."
He nodded, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "You want to grab a bite? My treat."
I smiled, shaking my head. "Nah, I'm good. Just ate with my friend over there." I pointed back over my shoulder with my thumb toward Eddie, who was standing by the streetlight, half in shadow, smoking like the world owed him a lifetime of nicotine.
Harry followed my gesture, eyes flicking toward Eddie, then back to me. "Then what about a drink?" he asked. "Come on. I miss you, dude. Let's hang out for a bit."
His tone carried that easy optimism he always had, the kind that used to make me believe things could still be fixed. I looked at him—really looked—and for a heartbeat, I saw the boy who used to sneak me extra slices of cake when Odette wasn't watching, the boy who waited up for me when I worked late, the one who gave me my first magic kit.
But I also saw the distance now, invisible but thick. His world had gone forward; mine had stopped somewhere along the way.
I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to. But the word stuck somewhere between my teeth and my throat, choking on everything it carried.
Because I knew what Harry was really trying to do.
He asked if I'd eaten because he already knew how things had been. He asked if I wanted a drink because he knew that too. He wasn't here to hang out—he was here to make sure I hadn't drowned. And part of me wanted to let him try, to let him throw me a rope and pretend it would reach. But the other part, the louder one, knew that letting him too close would only stain him. I couldn't have him wade into the filth that had already become my life.
Harry had always copied me growing up. At first it used to drive me crazy—the way he'd mimic how I tied my shoes, or how I'd fold my sleeves, or even the way I spoke. I'd snap at him sometimes, tell him to stop. But he never did. And then one day I saw it for what it was. It wasn't mockery. It was awe. He looked at me like I was someone worth being.
He used to take my side whenever Elaine decided to be her usual cruel self. He'd stand behind me like a soldier, pretending to glare at her, saying things like, "She's just jealous because you're cooler." Once, he even told her he hated her just to make me laugh. He was ten then—just a kid trying to make the world a little less heavy for me.
And I wanted him to stay that kid. I wanted him to keep remembering me as the cousin who showed him card tricks, who stayed up with him talking about football and stupid TV shows. Not this version—the one who counted coins to eat, who slept under a metal frame that creaked whenever he breathed. I didn't want him to see the kind of life that stuck to you like grime.
So I took a slow breath and said, "I can't right now. You know, I've got my friend with me. If you're staying for long, maybe we can meet some other day."
Inside, I was praying he'd say he was leaving tonight. That this could be the only small collision of our worlds.
But he smiled, easy and hopeful. "Sure. Yeah, I'm staying for two weeks. What about tomorrow?"
Tomorrow. It was so close it felt cruel. I'd wake at four in the morning for work, drag my body through another day, and by the time the sun set, I'd barely be human again. The thought of seeing him in the middle of that—him with his clean clothes, clean voice, clean life—made something twist inside me.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "How about I give you a call? I'm not sure if I'll be able to tomorrow, but I'll call you."
He nodded, though I could see the disappointment flicker in his eyes. "Okay."
Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "This is for you," he said.
I stared at it, but didn't take it. "What is that?"
"It's just something for you," he said quickly. "I don't know if we'll get another chance to meet. I put this together, you know, just in case."
He extended it toward me, and I took it reluctantly. The paper was soft from being handled too much. I could feel what was inside before I even looked—folded bills, thick enough to sting.
"What the fuck is that, Harry?"
He flinched slightly, his fingers curling into his palm. "I just want to help, okay? Don't look at it the way you usually do. It's nothing. I can give you this—it doesn't take anything from me. Please, just take it. Don't play all prideful and shit. We're brothers, right?"
I could feel the heat rising in my chest before the words even formed. I slammed the envelope against his chest, hard enough for it to crumple. "If you keep doing this shit," I said, my voice low, shaking, "then we probably won't be brothers anymore. You know how much I hate that. When I first started out, yeah, I took your pocket money because I had nothing. But that was then. I can handle my life now. You want to grab a bite? Fine. My treat. You want a drink? I'll buy it. But don't hover over me like I'm still drowning."
His face fell, the hurt immediate, raw. "Okay, okay," he said softly. "I'm sorry."
The silence that followed pressed against us, heavy, awkward, full of everything neither of us could say. Then he looked at me again, more carefully this time, as if trying to find a way back. "Can this be the last of it? Please. I saved that money with the thought of giving it to you. I won't do it again. Just… take it this time."
I stared at him, the envelope still between us. The neon light from the store flickered over his face, turning his eyes into something softer, sadder. I wanted to say no again, to throw it back, to tell him he didn't need to carry my weight. But I couldn't bring myself to.
Because part of me knew—refusing it would only hurt him more than it hurt me.
So I took the envelope, slow and unwilling, my fingers brushing his. The touch was brief, but it carried years in it.
"Just this once," I said quietly.
He smiled faintly, relief flickering across his features. "Just this once," he echoed.
We stood there for a while, both of us unsure of what to do next, both pretending the air didn't ache with what was unsaid. I looked at him one last time—the clean sweater, the familiar face, the piece of home that no longer belonged to me—and I thought how strange it was to love someone enough to want to keep them far away.
"I should get back to my friend," I said finally, nodding toward where Eddie still stood across the street, half-shrouded in smoke and shadow. "Don't come around here again, alright? Just call me, and we'll meet somewhere else. Okay?"
Harry's eyes flicked toward the shelter sign behind me, then back to my face. His smile was small but still genuine. "Cool piercing, by the way."
I huffed a laugh, running a thumb over my lip. "Oh, this? Just got it, what—two hours ago?"
He grinned. "Did it hurt?"
"Yeah," I said, smirking faintly. "Like a motherfucker."
Harry laughed quietly, that same soft sound I used to hear when he'd sneak into my room after Odette went to bed. "I'll call you," he said. "And you better pick up."
"Yeah, will do," I said, half-smiling. "And don't go getting a lip piercing, Harry. Odette would end you."
He shook his head, eyes glinting. "Nah, she doesn't get a say in any shit anymore. I'll tell you more about it when I see you again… hopefully before I leave."
Before I could answer, he stepped forward and pulled me into another hug. This one was slower, tighter—lingering just a little too long. I could feel his heartbeat against mine, steady, clean, nothing like the hollow rhythm that lived in me.
When he pulled back, he gave a small wave, the kind that said too much without needing words. He waved once at me, then over my shoulder, at Eddie across the street. I turned to see Eddie wave lazily back, a line of smoke drifting from his lips, expression unreadable.
Harry smiled one last time, then started walking down the street, his figure shrinking into the pale wash of the streetlights. I stood there, watching until he disappeared around the corner.
When I finally turned back, Eddie was still looking at me. He hadn't moved from his spot, his brow furrowed, cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers. The look on his face wasn't anger or curiosity—it was confusion. Like he'd just seen a side of me he didn't know existed.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The streetlight flickered above us, throwing brief shadows across the pavement. The city's undertone felt distant, muffled beneath the weight of something unspoken.
I crossed back toward him, pocketing the envelope. He didn't ask about it. He just watched me, quiet, the ghost of a smirk starting to form at the corner of his mouth.
And even though I tried not to show it, I felt hollow in a way that no drink, no trick, no laughter could fill. Because seeing Harry again was a reminder that somewhere, once, my life had been something other than survival.